


The Love Notes

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  "Doesn't it strike you as the least bit odd that you are the recipient of an unsigned love note from an unknown individual?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Notes

**Author's Note:**

> From jadesymb’s prompt, which I of course ignored, because that’s what I do: Love triangle, with secret identities. It was immensely fun playing in Sherlock’s world. I fully intend to do it again. Thanks to earlgreytea68 for being as awesome beta, per usual.

 

** The Love Notes **

 

Mrs. Hudson received the first note, but no one realized that until much later.  Which is to say, Sherlock knew immediately, but did not deign to mention this, so it was several weeks before John knew, by which time it was too late to do anything about it. 

 

The second note, which to John was the first note, was not to Mrs. Hudson.  It was, in fact, delivered to Molly Hooper, and unlike in the case of Mrs. Hudson, everyone knew that Molly had received a note, simply because the only person unaware that Molly wore her emotions on her sleeves was Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was no more than three steps into the morgue, and had spared only half a glance at Molly before he obnoxiously began spouting the details that led him to the conclusion that was already obvious.

  
“Different shade of lipstick, hair tucked neatly into a ponytail – for once, with the aid of a comb, I see – and a distinct lack of stains on the front of your lab coat, showing some extra care taken with keeping yourself neat, although you do not appear to have extended that courtesy to your shoes, which show that you spent an inordinate amount of time standing in water, and since it rained quite hard last night and the water stains appear to be rather fresh, I believe you may have missed your bus this morning and stood about waiting for the next one.  What made you miss your bus?  Clearly you didn’t run to it, your hair shows that you took care with it this morning but have not fixed it since, so you were obviously preoccupied while standing at the stop.  What preoccupied you?  I imagine it’s the folded note in your pocket, which shows rather more wear at the folds than you would expect, as the paper is otherwise in quite good shape.  The note is clearly important, as it’s still in the pocket of your lab coat, and you have touched it no less than three times since I entered the room, so whatever is in it is clearly at the top of your mind, and considering the attention paid to your hair, makeup, and dress, I assume it is from some lover or another.  Also, you’re blushing.  Correct?”

  
Molly’s mouth fell open, and her hand touched the note a fourth time.  Sherlock sighed, already bored.  “It’s not another criminal mastermind, is it, Molly?  I’m surprised the last one didn’t set you off dating for years.”

  
“No,” said Molly slowly, which didn’t help anyone’s confidence in her defense.

  
But Sherlock had already moved on to the body on the table, magnifying glass in hand, extraordinarily interested in the ears.  John was more interested in the way Molly was staring at Sherlock.

 

“Molly?” he asked.  It wasn’t the first time Molly had been subjected to one of Sherlock’s deduction tirades, but she looked startled and exposed nonetheless.

  
“I thought,” Molly began, but was interrupted by Sherlock’s annoyed shout.

  
“Molly, did you say what the time of death was?”

  
Molly stepped away from John, simultaneously shaking off the startled look.  “Six to six and one-half hours ago,” she said, and John saw her push the note further into her pocket.  There was no more said about a note that day.

  
It wasn't until the following week when the next note appeared, again to Molly, again noticed by Sherlock, with again another body on the table.  And again, Sherlock was examining the ears.

  
"What is it about the ears?" asked John, because Sherlock had never actually said anything _about_ the ears, a highly unusual thing for Sherlock, who waited impatiently for opportunities to show off. 

  
"Who said there was anything noteworthy about the ears?" said Sherlock, peering into an ear canal.

  
"You did, just now," said John.  "And I've never seen you so interested in ears before the last two murders."

  
"I always examine everything."

  
"But you don't always use the term 'noteworthy', when I ask why you're doing it," said John.

  
Sherlock eyes flashed up at John for a long moment.

  
"I do pay attention," said John.

  
"Sometimes," conceded Sherlock.  He stood up and handed the glass over.  "There you are.  Take a look."

  
John bent over and looked.  At first, it looked like an ordinary ear, perhaps not washed in a while, given the smudges on the auricle, but nothing that John could...

  
Oh.

 

"There's writing," said John, quite amazed.  "On the inside of his _ear_."

 

Sherlock reached for the glass.  John kept studying the ear. 

  
"John."

  
"I'm trying to _read_ it."

  
"I _was_ reading it."

  
Sherlock waved his fingers impatiently.

 

" _John_."

 

"Hold on—"

  
"The only person reading anything right now is Molly slipping glances at her second love-note," snapped Sherlock, and there was a clatter from the other side of the room where Molly's elbow tipped over a glass of something noxious-smelling, as she hastily shoved the note back in her lab coat pocket.  "My lens, if you will?"

  
John stood up and handed it over, less because he was conceding his inability to read the ear, and more because he told himself that it was to save Molly any further humiliation.  Besides, crouching was uncomfortable.

  
"Another note from the non-serial-killer lover, Molly?" asked Sherlock.

  
"Sherlock," said John in warning.

  
"Oh, of course he's not a serial killer this time," said Sherlock dismissively.  "If he was, if Molly had any inkling of it, she would never be carrying the second note in her pocket where she knew I would see."

  
John thought that really, Molly hadn't known that her first serial killer boyfriend had been a serial killer, or at least the mastermind behind serial killings, so it was hardly as if Molly were a good judge of boyfriends.  But to say this would not be fair to Molly, because none of the rest of them had picked up on her boyfriend's true intentions either, including the rude genius on the other side of the body with the odd ear tattoos.

  
"Paper, please," said Sherlock, and Molly brought him a notebook and pen.  Sherlock immediately began copying down whatever it was he could read in the ear. 

  
"Still need to learn what it says," said Sherlock, musing to himself.

  
Molly let out a squeak.

  
“Oh, not your note, I couldn’t care less about who wrote the blasted thing; probably love-sick sappy non-rhyming poetry on scented paper.  Something _you’d_ enjoy enough to read it ten times over and make you miss the bus. Did he dot the ‘I’s with hearts as well?”

  
"Sherlock," said John.  "Leave Molly's note alone."

  
"The _ear_ , John, the _ear_ ," said Sherlock, and he snapped the lens shut in its protective case.  "Quite odd markings, not in English nor even any alphabet I recognize."

  
"Not even Hangzhou numerals?"

  
"No," said Sherlock, still thoughtful.  He glanced at Molly.  "Notes in English?"

  
She nodded.

  
"That rules him out," said Sherlock, and went to put on his coat.

  
*

  
  
There was a crime scene.  Crime scenes tended to make Sherlock giddy.  John had never decided if this was a good or bad thing, because a giddy Sherlock tended to be an uncensored Sherlock.  John had spied Molly crying in the corner earlier that week, and he'd been around Sherlock long enough to notice the absence of notes in her pocket since then.  John wondered if it was possible to purchase a loud foghorn and use it whenever Sherlock was beginning to head toward his own figurative dangerous waters.

  
The crime scene, as it happened, was near the docks.  Perhaps, John thought, he would be lucky and there would be a foghorn bleating at opportune moments.

  
The bounce in Sherlock's step faded as soon as Greg Lestrade came into view.  If crime scenes made Sherlock giddy, then they usually had the opposite effect on Greg, who was the epitome of what John thought a detective inspector should be: open-minded, thoughtful, thorough, and above all, serious.  All qualities Greg Lestrade exhibited in spades, particularly at crime scenes.  They did not include the grin that threatened to take over the corners of his mouth while he watched Sherlock and John approaching, and it was the grin that no doubt caused Sherlock's giddiness to melt away.

  
John’s first thought was that either he or Sherlock had accidentally dressed in something ridiculous, or perhaps had been used as target practice by a passing bird, before he realized that Greg wasn’t actually looking at them at all.  The more petulant Sherlock became next to him, the more worried John got.  He began looking around for a foghorn.  Or perhaps a two-by-four.  He had a feeling he'd need one or the other soon enough.  Then again, Greg was liable to punch Sherlock, which Molly was not, and if truth be told, John thought that watching Greg Lestrade punch Sherlock Holmes in the nose would be rather satisfying, even if Sally Donovan was likely to enjoy the sight a bit too much for comfort.

  
"Another one of your ears, freak," said Sally scathingly as they approached the police line.

  
"Don't sound so hopeful, Donovan, it doesn't become you," said Sherlock, and waited for her to lift the police tape so that he could cross under it.  Sally didn't look the least bit pleased, and dropped it a bit quick so that it brushed the back of John's head as he followed.

  
Greg waited for them by the body.  The smile still threatened to break, and there was a relaxed set to his shoulders that John didn't normally see at a crime scene.  "This one was strangled."

  
"Strangled?" echoed John.

  
"Shot in the park, drowned in the pool, strangled at the docks," confirmed Greg.  "No pattern, save for the ears.  Wouldn't even connect the killings together, honestly, if it weren't for the tattooed ears."

  
"There you are, John, that's your title," said Sherlock absently, staring at Greg with narrowed eyes.  "Or do you prefer not to title them until they're finished?"

  
"Appears to be the same marking as the other bodies," continued Greg, "but none of us have a magnifying glass on us—"

  
Sherlock's sigh was a clear commentary on the preparedness of detective inspectors and New Scotland Yard at large.

  
"—And since they’re your ears—"

  
"Hardly _my_ ears, Inspector," said Sherlock icily.

  
"You found 'em, they're yours," said Greg, unrepentant. 

  
"Time of death?" interjected John, not liking the way Sherlock was staring at the living and not the dead man.

  
"Four hours ago, give or take.  We'll get an exact time at the morgue."

  
"Then why didn't you wait to call me until the body was _at_ the morgue?" said Sherlock irritably. 

  
Greg was momentarily knocked out of his devil-may-care mood.  "I'm sorry, did I miss a memo, or did you not call my office repeatedly last week, every hour just about, asking about new cases and possible murders and begging to be alleviated from the infernal boredom of every-day, law-abiding-citizenry life?"

  
"The note's not from your wife," snapped Sherlock.

  
As conversation stoppers went, it worked very well. 

  
"I think," said John, "I'll examine the corpse."

  
"Excuse me?" said Greg.

  
"The note in your breast pocket.  It isn't from your wife, who is still enjoying the attentions of the P.E. teacher, most especially now that you've moved out.  And yes, I can tell you've moved out, because it's quite clear that you're attempting to iron your shirts without the aid of an ironing board.  I'm rather surprised you're ironing them at all, but I suppose the fact that you've left her isn't common knowledge yet and you're hoping to keep it so, probably because you're still holding out hope that you'll be able to fix your marriage, and the note in your pocket is only fueling what is a hopeless desire, because if your wife wrote it, then she's feeling repentant.  Except she _didn’t_ write it, because she's still sleeping with the P.E. instructor."

  
"I—"

  
"Oh, look, this man was strangled," said John.  "By a rope.  Look, Sherlock, rope burns!"

  
"How do you know my wife didn't write it?" demanded Greg.

  
"Have you cataloged types of rope on your website yet, Sherlock?"

  
Sherlock stretched out his hand.  Greg reached into his pocket, pulled out the offending note, and handed it to him.  John began to pray for a convenient foghorn.

  
"The paper is a purple pastel with a small design cut into the side of the paper - the sort a woman purchases with the intention of using but never actually does because they always end up saving it for something more important.  This particular paper is of a rather thin quality, and was clearly torn from a notebook, presumably a pad of similar paper - ah, yes, do you see there?  A pad of numerous sheets, likely the rainbow variety, more suitable for a teenage girl than a grown woman.  If your wife was going to write you a love note, her husband driven away by her indiscretions, she wouldn't use a purple sheet of paper torn hastily from a notebook of rainbow-colored hues.  She'd have put a great deal more thought into it than that.  The fact that the note itself is unsigned is also indicative that the note is not from your wife, who surely would have wanted you to know that she was the author, and I will not even discuss the fact that really, you should have recognized that the handwriting is clearly not your wife's, which leads me to believe that you _wanted_ your wife to be the author of this note, instead of carefully examining the facts that clearly indicate otherwise."

  
Greg blinked, his mouth open just a bit.

  
John thought about bringing up the dead man at their feet, and decided against it.

  
"My wife's handwriting...."

  
"It was written," said Sherlock, "by a man."

  
Greg swallowed.

  
"Inspector," continued Sherlock.  "Is there something you're not telling us?"

  
"Not that we care," said John quickly.

  
"Back to the rope burn, please, John," said Sherlock.

  
"A man?" said Greg.

  
"What man is writing love notes to you?" mused Sherlock.  "And worse, doing it on purple pastel paper?  Right-handed, well-educated - I see references to Shakespeare here, which anyone could do, but also Marlowe and Chaucer, which is more unusual.  Horrible choice in paper, but excellent choice in pen - fountain, and obviously he knows how to write with one, likely has done for years without thinking about it.  You don't normally write on schoolgirl paper with an expensive pen like this one, so clearly he chose the paper to further mask his identity, and possibly his sex, on top of not actually signing the note."

  
"Can I have it back now?" snapped Greg.

  
Sherlock looked up from the note.  "An unknown man wrote you a love note and you want it _back_?"

  
For a moment, John wasn't sure if Greg was going to punch Sherlock, or change his mind about the note.  John had the idea that Greg wasn't sure which way to go, either.

  
"Why do you care who wrote it?" asked Greg. 

  
"I don't," snapped Sherlock.

  
"Then I'll have it back, ta," said Greg, and reached out for the note. 

  
"It doesn’t bother you that someone, presumably with illicit intentions, is sending you love notes, masking their identity and causing you to have false hope for a reconciliation that will never occur?"

  
Greg didn’t blink.  "Does it bother you?"

  
Sherlock gave him the note, but didn't look the least bit happy about it.  "Multifilament polyprop, or polypropylene."

  
Greg and John stared at him.

  
"The rope, John, the _rope_ ," said Sherlock, clearly irritated with John, the rope, and possibly the state of the world and the note in Greg's hand.  "And some years old, judging by the additional scrape marks, as multipfilament polyprop degrades over time.  Do you even _read_ my website, or do you only glance at it in order to make fun of it?"

  
He stormed off, presumably to the road where he could find a taxi, go home, and sulk.  John slowly stood up.

  
"I’m sure whoever wrote that note—"

  
"Not someone I’m worried about," said Greg, still staring at Sherlock's retreating form. 

  
"He doesn’t really care who wrote it."

  
Greg didn't say anything for a moment.  "Do you know," he said finally, "I think he actually might."

  
*

  
The envelope was mixed in with the mail, between the advertisement for the Philharmonic and a misdirected bill from a credit card company.  For a moment, John thought the envelope was misdirected as well - no one he knew used the thick, cream-colored stationary.  Then he saw his own name in neat handwriting, and frowned.

  
Sherlock was, as usual, conducting some experiment or other on the kitchen table.  John dropped the rest of the mail on the counter, and continued to his chair in the sitting room, still holding the envelope.  He used his penknife to open it neatly, and took out the note inside.

  
Some twenty minutes later, Sherlock looked up from the chalk on his microscope.  "I could do with some tea."

  
"Hmm," said John.

  
"John.  John?  Tea?"

  
"What? Yes, thank you," replied John absently.

  
"I don't mean for _me_ to make it," said Sherlock.  He frowned.  "What is that?"

  
"A letter," said John.

  
"For you?"

  
"Well, more of a note."

  
Sherlock's voice was deadly.  "A note.  What does it say?"

  
John folded the note and put it in his breast pocket.  Sherlock, however, was faster, and had left his experiment in the kitchen and plucked the note from the pocket no sooner than John had placed it there.

  
"You do know it's a crime to tamper with someone else's mail, don't you?" said John.

  
Sherlock ignored him as he scanned the note.  John waited for the outpouring of deductions - but none were immediately forthcoming.

  
"John.  Did you read this?"

  
"Well, seeing as how it was addressed to me—"

  
"It's a _love_ note."

  
He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.  "Yes.  Yes, it is."

  
"It's _unsigned_."

  
"Apparently so."

  
"Doesn't it strike you as the least bit odd that you are the recipient of an unsigned love note from an unknown individual?" Sherlock demanded.

  
"People _like_ me," said John pointedly.

  
Sherlock either missed the jab - unlikely - or chose to ignore it.  He shouted over his shoulder.  "Mrs. Hudson!"

  
"You're not going to tell me Mrs. Hudson wrote me a love note, are you?" scoffed John.  "And speaking of which - give it back."

  
"No, you'll only do something stupid with it," said Sherlock.

  
"Burn it?"

  
"Keep it," snapped Sherlock.  " _Mrs_. _Hudson_!"

  
John could hear her coming up the stair.  It would be too childish to rip the note out of Sherlock's hand, particularly in front of Mrs. Hudson, who already thought the pair of them still teenagers.  He took Sherlock's arm with his left hand and tried to hold it down while he reached for the note, but Sherlock was still too quick for him.  He was also a head taller.

  
Mrs. Hudson came into the room, all out of breath.  "Dear, oh dear - boys?  What's wrong?  Is someone else dead?"

  
Sherlock turned to her, completely oblivious to John trying to bat the note out of his hand.  "The notes in your apron pocket, please."

  
Mrs. Hudson touched her apron pocket.  "What notes?"

  
Sherlock sighed.  "There are currently three of them, each written on unlined size A4 paper, all in pencil and all in the same cursive hand, sloping slightly to the left and in a style reminiscent of the 1940s.  The first arrived about a month ago, shortly after the revelation of Mr. Chatterjee's multiple wives, and while I do not know its contents, I can tell you that whatever it said did afford you enormous pleasure and comfort, so that when the second arrived two weeks later, you were no longer concerned about its originator but pleased to see it in the post.  The third arrived yesterday, by far the longest missive, but still giving no clues to who wrote it, and you have been wondering whether or not to ask my opinion, which is why you have been carrying them around since, and if you could please hand them to me now that John has stopped behaving like a demented housefly, I should be glad to give you more information than I have gleaned already."

  
John took a step back.  Mrs. Hudson handed Sherlock the notes. 

  
“Just because you’re bored since the ear tattoo artist has been apprehended is no reason to go looking for mysteries where none exist,” said John, irritated, and Sherlock hummed, which was his way of both acknowledging and ignoring him all at once. 

  
Mrs. Hudson turned to John while Sherlock examined the notes by the window.  "A little silly, having a secret admirer at my age," she admitted, but John could tell she was pleased nonetheless.

  
"No more so than at mine," said John.

  
"You have one, too?"

  
"And Greg Lestrade," remembered John.  "He had one, what, two weeks ago?"

  
"Not his wife!"

  
"Apparently not, according to the killjoy in the corner," said John dryly.

  
"Oh, but that's alright, he deserves a bit of happiness, doesn't he?" said Mrs. Hudson, pleased.

  
"Be quiet, I'm thinking," said Sherlock.

  
"Molly had two notes, didn't she?" said John.

  
Sherlock dismissed Molly's notes with a snort. 

  
"Is it an epidemic?" asked Mrs. Hudson.  "And not even near Valentine's."

  
"Yes, just as I thought," said Sherlock, and he sounded quite grim.  "Mrs. Hudson's notes appear to be written by an older gentleman with an average education, which explains the old-fashioned handwriting.  Average quality paper - likely the best you can purchase at the local newsagent.  Written in pencil on a hard surface, and though the paper is unlined, there was a guidepaper underneath as the words are perfectly straight.  Unsigned."

  
"I thought them lovely notes," whispered Mrs. Hudson.

  
"I'm sure they are," said John.

  
"John's note is written on expensive, cream-colored stationary in blue ink - ballpoint pen but we won't hold that against them.  Written on a softer surface - that is, on a desk or some other hard surface but with give, perhaps a pad of some kind.  Quite acceptable educational standards, perhaps not the best but certainly nothing that would cause anyone to sneer, and the author seems to think that John is - let me see if I can find the exact phrase - ah yes, here it is—"

  
John was able to snatch the note out of Sherlock's hands in the nick of time.  "Yes, thank you, that will be all," he said briskly.

  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "Adorable," he finished, taking his time with the word and clearly uncertain how it tasted.  "Hmm."

  
Mrs. Hudson patted John's arm sympathetically.

  
"You do have a point?" asked John.

  
"Doesn't it strike you as the least bit odd that there have been love notes arriving in people's mailboxes recently?  Anonymous, hand-written, clearly designed in such a way as to appeal to the recipient enough that they'd want to keep them on their person."

  
"I didn't get a chance to carry mine," said John.

  
"You would put it under your pillow," scoffed Sherlock.  "Three recipients—"

  
“ _Four_ ," corrected John.

  
"But only _one_ author," concluded Sherlock triumphantly. 

  
Mrs. Hudson gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.  "No!"

  
"Yes," said Sherlock.

  
"But you said a man wrote mine!  And if a man wrote mine, then—"  Mrs. Hudson looked at John, and it was clear that she was thinking about the succession of girlfriends.  "Oh, dear."

  
"That's ridiculous!" sputtered John.  "Why would a man write me a love note?"

  
"Oh, John," said Sherlock, tsking.  "People _like_ you."

  
John resisted the urge to throttle his flatmate.  It was a near thing.

  
"Why would the same person write love notes to both of us?" wondered Mrs. Hudson.

  
"Not just you two - the inspector as well," said Sherlock, examining the notes again.  "I believe all three were written by the same individual."

  
"The handwritings are different," protested John.

  
"Easy enough to disguise," said Sherlock.

  
"Oh," sighed Mrs. Hudson.  "I rather liked having a secret admirer.  I was able to look Mr. Chatterjee in the eye."

  
John glared at Sherlock.  "Give them here."

  
Sherlock handed Mrs. Hudson's notes to him.  John gave them a quick glance.  "Aha!  Sherlock, I believe you missed something.  This paper was _not_ purchased in a London store as you assumed, but is in fact the same weight and quality as paper sold only in Cardiff."

 

"Don't be ridiculo— _ow_."

  
"Cardiff," repeated John, much more emphatically.  "And my note this morning came from _Edinburgh_.  You see, Mrs. Hudson, it is impossible for our notes to have been written by the same person.  Clearly, they were written by two different people in different parts of the country.  And of different sexes."

  
John folded the notes and put them carefully in Mrs. Hudson's hands.  "So don't you worry about meeting Mr. Chatterjee in the eye.  You're worth a thousand of him."

  
Mrs. Hudson smiled, and patted John on the cheek.  "It's so sweet when you try," she said fondly.  "I'll remember that."

  
But John noticed that she put the notes back in her pocket on her way out, and felt vindicated anyway.

  
"You didn't have to stomp on my foot," sulked Sherlock.

  
"How else will you ever learn?" 

  
"I should have waited for her to go before revealing that the notes were frauds," surmised Sherlock.  "If it makes you feel better, I can write her a much better anonymous love note."

  
"Not necessary."  John reached his hand out.

  
"What?"

  
"My note, please."

  
"No."

  
"It's _my_. _Note_."

  
"It's falsified and deliberately misleading, and besides, you made me give up Mrs. Hudson's notes, and I want to compare them to Lestrade's for analysis."

  
"You can use Molly's."

  
"Don't be ridiculous."  Sherlock strode into the kitchen.  "I still want tea."

  
"I want my note."

  
"Do we have any milk?"

  
"Sherlock, my note isn't one of your cases to solve."

  
Sherlock stared at him.  John tried not to flinch.  “The unsigned note you received this morning- is from someone who is deliberately trying to deceive not just you, but Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade.  It is a clear attempt to lull all of you into a false sense of contentment and hope for a relationship that can never be consummated because clearly the one author who wrote all three sets of notes is _insane_.  You honestly want me to believe that this piece of fiction is so important to you that you wish to hold onto it for _sentimentality_?”

  
John squared his shoulders, and thought of the impossible, improbable note.  “Yes.”

  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, chest heaving.  "We're out of milk," said Sherlock.  "I'll just pop out and get some."

  
He was halfway down the stairs when John stuck his head out the door and shouted after him.  "Sometimes you don't get to know who wrote things, you know!"

  
*

  
It was the last note delivered.  The Tower of London break-in happened the very next day, and what with the trial and everything that followed, no one really noticed that the notes had stopped as mysteriously as they had started.

  
John never did learn where Sherlock hid his note.

  
*

  
The funeral was followed by a small, private reception at 221B, but it was more a test of wills than an excuse for communal mourning.  John Watson sat stiffly in his armchair, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, and responding to queries in monosyllables, even when additional syllables would have been more appropriate.  Mrs. Hudson sat near him, but never for very long; she would stand, say that someone really ought to make tea, meaning herself, but then sit down again, her hand covering her eyes or ears or mouth, shoulders shaking. 

  
Greg Lestrade was there for twenty minutes, and never said a word.  He stood by the window, looking out onto the street, and Mycroft thought he had likely memorized the view.  He squeezed John's shoulder as he left, and kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek.  Mrs. Hudson took his hand and held it for a long moment, with a small, brave smile, before she buried her face in her hands again.  John didn't appear to notice.

  
John, thought Mycroft, was past noticing anything.  He almost envied the man.

  
John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade.  Irony, thought Mycroft.  Sherlock would not have been surprised.  Or perhaps he would be.  Sometimes, it was hard for Mycroft to tell what would surprise his younger brother or not.

  
No one else showed up, but that was probably all right.  Mycroft didn't really expect anyone else, and anyway, he didn't think John or Mrs. Hudson would mind that he left after half an hour.  Mycroft had an idea that John wanted all of them gone, anyway.

  
"The...the flat," said Mrs. Hudson, gesturing to...well, all of it, really.

  
"Not now, I think, Mrs. Hudson," said Mycroft.  "Perhaps later, when...later.  I shall take care of the rent for now."

  
John did not protest; Mycroft wondered if he had even heard.  He supposed that John contributed some portion of the rent, and would have been very insistent on making that known, in any other circumstances.  It didn't matter.  Mycroft had no doubt that the proportions of who paid what amount had never been equal, anyway, and he had his instructions.

  
 _Instructions_.

  
"I'll ring you next week," he told Mrs. Hudson.  "John."

  
John started, and stared up at Mycroft.

  
"I'm going now," said Mycroft.

  
"Oh.  I....yes.  Of course.  Shall I—?"

  
"No need, I know my way out.  And John - stay as long as you want.  As you need.  We'll talk about...things, another day." 

  
 _Things_.  It was all mildly distasteful to Mycroft, but he couldn't quite determine why.  He only wanted to be gone from 221B, as quickly as possible, and back in his own home where he did not have to put on a show.

  
In all, it had been a terrible week, and Mycroft was in a way sorry that his brother was not actually dead, because it would have saved him the trouble of being annoyed with him for putting him through it.

  
*

  
After the funeral, and the tedious wake at 221B, Mycroft Holmes wanted nothing more than to return to work, because that was what he did.  But that was not what _people_ did, and it was the show that mattered at the moment, not his own personal agenda.  It would have sparked too much curiosity from his colleagues, none of whom were idiots, and so Mycroft Holmes went home, and was much disgruntled about it.

  
The house was empty in that way that the dead leave places.  221B, filled with Sherlock's violin and sheet music and half-completed experiments, a pair of his shoes still cockeyed by the door and a box of nicotine patches on the mantel, ought to have felt empty, but it did not.  Sherlock might have walked straight in and no one, not even catatonic John, would have blinked an eye at the incongruity.  221B, and absent Sherlock in it, still felt alive.

  
Mycroft's house was silent, save for the tick-tick-tick of the clock in the sitting room.  Mycroft stood in the foyer and listened to it, wondering if it had ever been that loud, or if he only noticed it now.  Had Sherlock turned the corner, Mycroft would have assumed he was a ghost, and not thought it odd.  Which was ridiculous, because Mycroft could not remember the last time Sherlock had stepped foot in this house - it could very well have been the last school holidays, more than a decade before.  They had both grown up here, but only Mycroft had ever really thought of the house as home.

  
Mycroft was seldom at loose ends.  He could not bring work home with him - not on the day of his brother's funeral - but he did not intend to sit around the house and wait for the day to be over.  He set his umbrella in the stand, placed his hat on the table by the door, where it would be found by the butler later to be brushed and put away.  He went into his office, and laid out his wallet, mobile, and other assorted debris from his pockets.  He then sat at his desk and contemplated the pile of black-rimmed envelopes that waited for him.

  
Condolences.  Mycroft picked up the lot, shoved them in a drawer, and worked on other things.  It was not proper, of course.  But then, nothing about that day had been _proper_ , and Mycroft was in his own home now.

  
A cheque for a charity he favored.  Several notices from investment companies spouting their commitment to privacy.  An advertisement for the upcoming season at the Royal Ballet, still addressed to his mother.  Also not proper, but Mycroft had somehow never managed to update it. 

  
It was some time before Mycroft reached the end of the pile and found the incongruous note, written on simple, white, unlined paper in what should have been a familiar, quick, not-quite-sloppy hand.  Addressed to him, only a few lines, unsigned, and in a plain envelope that had come with the mail several months before, but not delivered by the postman.  Mycroft held the note in his hand without bothering to read it again.  Ridiculous to have even kept such a thing, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away.

  
 _Mycroft,_

  
_Thank you for your assistance.  I know I can count on you, as I always have.  Despite what I may say in public, you are the best brother a man could hope to have, and I should hope that I will always do you proud._

  
Mycroft closed his eyes, and for a moment, thought of his brother, who had not written this note, who would never have written this note, who - despite the charade of that morning - never would even think of writing this note.  He remembered Sherlock as a boy, curls askew, face blackened with soot, scrapes on every visible part of his body, and immensely proud of having just destroyed the garden tool shed.  The shouts and laughter and sirens, and Mycroft felt a perfect fool for mourning a man who wasn’t even dead. 

  
The love note was a mystery, the variety that Sherlock would enjoy.  Mycroft could have shown him the note, but never had, couldn’t even mention it, for a thousand and one reasons, none of which he cared to examine, and all of which fought for his attentions in the dead of night, and in the silence of the Diogenes Club. 

  
Mycroft didn’t want to consider who had written the note.  In a way, to him, it didn't even matter.

  
Mycroft was well aware of irony.  Perhaps that was why he folded the note again, and slipped it inside his wallet, before turning his attentions to the lunch waiting in the dining room.

 

 


End file.
